


First Family

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baby Sam Winchester, Gen, Growing Up, John is unprepared, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Road Trips, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-15
Updated: 2007-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: John and Dean straighten out the division of labor on the road.





	First Family

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written in 2007, around the time that "Origins" was published. Subsequent canon may have joss'd it.
> 
> Original Authors' Notes: After I had already started this, I saw a complaint that Dean would have been too young to have changed Sam’s diapers. Bull. Whether he’d *want* to is a different question…. This was also completed before I read "Origins" 1 or 2, but is somewhat compliant.

**1984**

“Dad! He did it again,” Dean called from the back seat. 

“You don’t need to tell me,” John Winchester answered, already rolling down the window. “Let me find a place to pull off.”

“Dad….” In the rearview mirror, John could see his eldest son wrinkle his nose distastefully.

“There’s a lot worse things in this world than a poopy diaper, Dean-o,” John told him, with good humour, but as always, his humour had an edge to it. “If it bothers you that much, you know what to do. The stuff’s in the bag,” he continued.

Dean considered this for a moment, as if deciding which was worse: enduring the smell of Sam’s diaper until the next rest area, or taking on changing duty himself.

In the four months since his father had bundled his boys and their few possessions – all that was rescued from the fire, and a few things the Red Cross had given them afterward, plus some donations the local firemen and police had given them for a widower with an infant – into the car to live a nomadic existence, Dean had taken over a lot of the chores associated with his little brother. He had become an expert at feeding Sammy, and at lulling him to sleep each night, no matter how unfamiliar the motel room, truck stop, or rest stop. He even read to Sam - well, practiced reading his own books, but out loud, and that counted. But there were some things a five-year-old, even one as grown-up as Dean, simply would not do for his baby brother. Anything involving bodily fluids of any kind, for example. Burping him, or dealing with his spit-up (which wasn’t so often anymore). Diapers were definitely up to Dad.

But somewhere along the 500 miles between St. Louis and Birmingham, Sam had contracted a particularly nasty case of the runs, the displeasure of which he was sharing with both his brother and father. They were south of Birmingham now, on the way to Tallahassee (which Dean just loved to say: TALL-a-HASS-ee, so satisfying with its iambs and wide A’s and the almost-naughty “hass”), and the trip was taking much longer than Dad said it should, because they kept having to stop for Sam. Change him. Keep him hydrated. Walk him when he got too fussy.

Which he was threatening to become now, in fact. Sam’s face was getting redder, screwing itself into a scrunchy, pudgy caricature in preparation for a good, solid wail.

Dean leaned over in the back seat, not too close to Sam’s business end, and tickled him to stave off the impending storm. But it was no good. Sam let forth a bellow that nearly made his Dad’s hands jerk the wheel.

“Dean,” John said, the request clearly implied in his tone.

“I’m trying to calm him down,” Dean answered sullenly. 

“Dean, he’s uncomfortable. There’s no good place to pull over, either, son, not for a while. Look, just this once, okay?”

“It’s gross,” Dean mumbled.

“It’s not that bad,” John admonished him. “Why when you were Sammy’s size—”

“Not listening, Dad!” Dean said quickly. “La la la la…” but he stopped after only a few seconds, because between Sam’s crying and his Dad’s laughing, there was more than enough noise in the car.

“Just clean him up for me, Dean, and we’ll stop for dinner in the next town, okay? C’mon, help your old man out.”

Dean chewed his lip, but began digging through the bag. It was rare for Dad to ask him, rather than tell him, but he recognized that there was really no difference. Ask could easily become tell, if he refused, and then he wouldn’t – couldn’t – refuse.

He unbuckled Sam’s safety restraints and eased him out of his miniature trousers, gagging at the sudden strength of the odor. “P.U.!” he pronounced. Sam kicked and squirmed, making lots of noises (including, at least once, “Poo!”) and for a minute Dean thought he was going to make the mess even worse, but once Dean got his own small hand around Sam’s plump ankles, Sam stopped fighting (though not crying). Dean slid the clean diaper under, as he’d seen his father do countless times (countless times in the last two days, even!), and then pulled the messy one away, rolling it up on itself as he did so. After catching it closed with its own sticky tabs, he dropped it into the foot well. A couple quick swipes with a wet nap and he was wrapping Sam up into the fresh diaper. Then it was a simple matter of prodding the dirty one into an empty plastic bag to contain the smell. Sam was still fussing and crying, but at least he didn’t stink.

“Pretty good, son,” John said appreciatively from the front seat. Dean looked up at the reflection of his father’s eyes in the mirror. “Might have to add that to your official job description.”

“No way,” Dean insisted. “I’m not his maid.”

John hitched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

They stopped for dinner at a greasy spoon just off the highway. Dean unbuckled Sam’s car seat and pushed it all the way to the driver’s side door, where his father reached in and grabbed Sam out of it to carry him inside. Dean grabbed Sam’s supply bag with its many pockets and compartments, a gift from Dad’s old partner at the garage.

John settled them into a booth with a view of the car through the window. The waitress, a forty-something woman in a wilting smock with “MIDGE” embossed on her name tag, came over immediately at the sight of single father, small boy, and infant.

“Coffee, sugar?” she asked John. And to Dean: “You need a booster seat, champ?” 

John nodded and nudged the cup toward her, but Dean looked at her indignantly. “Can you do us a favor and fill this with some apple juice?” John asked before Dean could mouth off. He held out a sippy cup. “And could we get some mashed potatoes?”

The waitress smiled and snapped her chewing gum between her molars. “Sure thing, sugar,” she said with a wink, accepting the cup. “How about you, little man? Would you like a Coke? Chocolate milk?”

“He’ll have regular milk, thanks,” John told her. Sam fussed a little in the wooden high chair and John checked his diaper absently. Still dry; just hungry. Sam kept trying out the sounds others made, especially Dean.

“But she said they have--”

“Regular milk, Dean. You can have a chocolate milkshake for the road, okay?” He looked up at the waitress. “If we could just get that filled, miss?”

“Oh, sure, hon. I’ll be right back with that. And your milk,” she added, apologetically, aware that she may have caused friction, and hustled into the kitchen.

John flipped open the plastic-covered menu to scan the specials. Dean swung his legs against the bench seat, humming the last tune that had been on the radio when John shut off the motor. “Want meatloaf, Dean? Or a chicken patty?”

“Burger,” Dean said. (“Urg,” said Sam.)

“You had a burger yesterday, kiddo. Try again. Meatloaf or chicken patty.”

“Chicken patty. Fries.” (“Aye,” said Sam.)

“And green beans.” (“Ee.”)

“Corn.” (“Bor.”)

“If they’ve got it.”

Thus was his order negotiated. Just then Midge returned with the juice cup, Dean’s milk, and a little plate of piled up mashed potato. She gazed down at Sam. “Just look at him. He must be what, about a year old?”

“Just about,” John said, unable to conceal pride.

“Mind if I…?” she asked, pointing to the potatoes and then extending the tentative finger under Sam’s chin.

“Careful, he’s been a little--” John started to warn her.

“I feed Sammy,” Dean announced possessively.

“Dean, it’s okay,” John said quickly. “We…. Dean’s been a big help with his little brother,” he explained. “He’s not used to having anyone else around.”

“I see,” Midge said. She exchanged a look with John that clearly said she wasn’t going to ask, but had formed her own conclusions. “Well, Dean, I promise I know what I’m doing. I raised my two boys by myself, so I know what your Pa’s up against. But my boys are all grown up, now, and no grandkids yet, so I don’t get this kind of chance very often. And I know that Janice over there,” she pointed to the other waitress, behind the counter, “has just been itching to hold him since y’all came in--she’s been trying with her Morris for over a year. We’ll take real good care of him, okay?” She spoke half to Dean and half to his father, but it was from Dean that she asked permission, seeing John wink at her encouragingly.

“Bring him back if he starts crying,” Dean warned.

“Don’t you worry none, sugar,” she told him. “Now, what can I get for y’all to eat?”

They did have corn, so Dean avoided the dreaded canned green beans that seemed to be on every diner menu in the country, and never good anywhere, no matter how they were served. Midge jotted down their order, said, “Comin’ right up, sugar!” and picked Sam up to bundle him onto one hip. He hiccupped, but before he could start crying, she took the juice back off the table and handed it to Sam, who instantly sucked on the mouthpiece. Then she sauntered over to Janice with the potato plate. A minute later they heard her give a little squeal of delight.

Dean twisted in his seat to watch the two women with his little brother. He seemed content enough with Midge and Janice looking after him, but Dean wasn’t sure that would last. Even if he didn’t want to change Sam’s dirty old diapers, he already felt an underlying sense of responsibility for Sam. No, more than that. Sammy was Dean’s property, his to feed and his to read to, his to soothe and his to keep amused while Dad put in long hours on the roads and in the towns where they stayed. Dad was on a mission, Dean knew, and it was important. It was for Mom. And Dean’s job was to look after Sam, so that Dad could do his work. So that they could stay together.

“Hey,” Dad said softly, and Dean turned back to face him. “He’s okay, Dean. Let them fuss over him; with any luck, they’ll keep him while we eat.”

Dean’s face clouded. He still didn’t quite want to relinquish his privilege, but on the other hand, Sam had chosen meal times for the last two days to be his most fractious, and Dean hated cold fries. It would be nice to eat without having to--

Across the diner, Sam began to wail. Dean twisted to his knees so he could lean on the back of the booth, feeling, more than seeing, his father sit up a little straighter. Janice was holding Sam, and not very well, and trying to feed him the mashed potatoes. Sam kept turning his head away from the spoon. His hands were two fists that batted at Janice’s arms as he cried.

“No problem, no problem,” Janice said in John’s direction. “Just a little fussy about his din-din.”

Dean turned around and looked accusingly at his father. “He’s fussy ’cause you’re callin’ it ‘din-din,’ lady,” he muttered.

“Dean.”

“But Dad--”

“Settle.” John slid out of the booth and walked over to the waitresses. Dean turned around again to watch. 

His Dad smiled disarmingly at Midge and Janice - amazing how his Dad could turn on the charm, and how it nearly always worked - and saw Sam reach over to Dad. Dad’s strong hands tucked underneath Sam’s butt, and he made a face. Sam cried harder and threw his cup down.

Janice scrambled for the cup. Midge asked a question Dean couldn’t hear. Dad shook his head and asked something himself; Midge pointed beyond their booth. Dad brought Sam back with him.

“Dean, his bag,” he said in clipped tones as he passed the table. Dean picked up the bag, which had been on his side of the booth, and handed it off quickly. “Stay here, son,” Dad said, without stopping. He disappeared around the corner.

Dean waited. At least Dad had dropped the idea that Dean would change Sam on a regular basis. He could still hear Sam crying, though, even through the walls of the restroom. Dad said everything was okay, but Dean wondered if maybe Sammy needed a doctor.

Midge came back with his plate. “You okay, hon?”

“Yes’m,” Dean said. “C’n I have some ketchup?”

She reached over to the window ledge, and Dean couldn’t help looking down her smock. As she opened the ketchup bottle and tipped some of the red sauce onto his plate, she said, “Tell your daddy when he gets back I’m keeping his dinner under the lamps for him, okay? I’ll bring it out soon as he’s ready.”

Dean nodded again and studied his chicken. He picked up his knife and fork and started to--

“Want me to cut that up for you, sugar?”

Dean dimly remembered getting his meat cut by Mom, but that was before. In the last six months he had learned to do a lot of things for himself. Like handle the business end of a knife, and not just for food. Dad promised that this summer he could start sharpening the knives without supervision, if he didn’t get a single nick before Sam’s birthday.

“I can do it,” he said, jutting out his chin.

“Just say no thank you, Dean,” Dad said, reproachful, tired. He was holding Sam, now calm and quite interested in his surroundings. 

“Hey, handsome, all better now?” Midge asked Sam. “I’ll bring your food right out,” she told Dad and hustled over to the counter.

Dad settled Sam back in his high chair and accepted the plate of potatoes as well as his own dinner - the meatloaf, Dean saw. Dean fished out a baby spoon from Sam’s bag and handed it to Sam, who began rapping it on the chair arm. Then Dean scooped up a glob or two of the potatoes onto Dad’s saucer and plopped the makeshift plate on the highchair tray.

“Deh,” Sam said.

“Yeah. Eat up, Sammy,” Dean told him. He scraped a french fry through his ketchup and munched.

“Dean? What did I tell you about pouring the ketchup?”

“Waitress did it for me, Dad.” A week ago he had ruined his dinner when he jerked the bottle too hard, and the ketchup came out in a rush, flooding the plate. He’d had to sluice all the ketchup to one side and salvage what he could, because Dad wouldn’t let him get a second order. (“You did it; you can deal with it.”) Since then Dad insisted that Dean couldn’t pour his own ketchup until he had better control. Dean thought it was a little weird, how he could sharpen Dad’s knives (supervised), but couldn’t upend a bottle of sauce on his own, but he didn’t dare say anything about it to Dad, couldn’t figure out the right words to express the irony.

Sam, meanwhile, was spooning his own potatoes and pushing them around the plate more than putting them in his mouth. Dean sighed and reached over to help his aim. “Food goes in, Sammy. Not around and around.” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork and popped it into his mouth as an example. “See?”

Dad had pulled out his notebook and was eating without looking at his plate (though that didn’t stop him from reminding Dean to eat the corn). Dean alternated between his own meal and pushing Sam to eat. His fries still got cold before he could eat more than half.

Midge came by to clear their plates. “Still want that milkshake?” she asked.

“Yes. To go, please,” John told her. He also handed her a baby bottle. “And some milk in this?” He looked at Dean after she’d gone. “We’re going to push a little more tonight, son. I’d like to make it across the state border and into Marianna tonight, if I can.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said, more because Dad sounded like he needed someone to answer than anything else. (“Bur,” said Sam, tipping his juice into his mouth.)

Dad didn’t say anything more while he paid the bill and dropped a tip onto the table, other than to recommend that Dean hit the head before they took off again. They all went into the restroom, and he and Dad took turns changing Sam into a footed sleeper and using the facilities. By the time they had both done their business and washed their hands, Sam also had a coat and hat and mittens, even though the April evening was fairly mild.

Sam perched on the edge of the changing table and clapped his hands, fascinated as always by the muffled sound they made when mittened. He reached out for Dean, who opened his arms and let Sam wrap his small limbs around his brother’s trunk. Dad slung the bag over his shoulder, milk bottle tucked into an outer elastic pocket, and picked up Dean’s milkshake, stealing a sip on their way out. Dean shot one rebellious look at Midge and Janice before he slipped past his Dad and out the door into the twilit parking lot.

“Deh,” Sam said again as Dean nestled him back in his car seat. He pulled on his feet with mittened fingers. Dean made to take the mittens off--

“Wait until the heater gets running a bit, before you take those off,” Dad said, easing into the driver’s seat and swinging the door shut. Dean remembered a day at Kindergarten when one of the kids (Tommy, maybe, or was it Billy?) explained his mother’s uncanny ability to catch him misbehaving by saying that his mother had “eyes in the back of her head.” He wondered what the kids would make of his Dad, who literally could see behind him right into Dean’s backseat world. The engine roared to life and Sam burbled incoherently, trying out sounds in a ceaseless patter that rose and fell with the gear shift.

Dad drove while the sun set and Dean slurped his shake and pulled off Sam’s mittens and gave him his bottle, then played pat-a-cake with his chubby fingers until Sam’s babble subsided as he drifted off to sleep. After a while Dad shut off the radio and sighed.

“Dean, you still awake back there?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said.

“I dunno, Dean. You know, your ol’ man has some hard work to do, for the foreseeable future.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean filled in his father’s pauses.

“And you know how important it is that you and Sam are safe, right?”

“Yes.” Dean bit his lips, fiddled with the straw in the empty shake cup.

“Well…these last couple trips…they’re kinda trial runs, in a way. I’m trying to figure out how we can do this, Dean. How I can do what I have to do, while making sure that you and Sam are taken care of. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Dean thought. These past months, the places they’d been, the stream of hotels, motels, new people, strangers, watching TV in the room with Dad, eating out all the time - Dean liked it. Liked being with his Dad. Liked being useful. Grown-up, sorta. Did he mean…. “We...can’t come with you anymore?”

Dad sighed again. “That’s just it, Dean: there’s nowhere I can leave you. Nowhere safe, no one who I can trust to take care of you but me. That’s why I need your help, sport. I need you to look after Sam.”

“I do look after Sam….”

“Dean. I can’t be bargaining with you about your brother. If I need you to see to him, if he’s crying, if he gets dirty and needs to be cleaned up, if God forbid he gets sick and needs medicine on a schedule - I need you to help me. Not argue with me. Understand, Dean?” The headlights of the cars behind them threw a light on his eyes in the reflection of the rearview. Dean saw a glint of hard steel, but also something else…a plea. _Don’t make me break us up more,_ it seemed to say. _Let me keep us as a family._

“Y-yes, I think so. Will - will you still teach me to shoot, and…and everything?”

“Yes, son,” Dad said, but mixed in with his proud was some sad. “Yes, you’ll learn all that, probably too soon to be healthy for either of us. But meanwhile, I’m trusting you with Sam, okay? He’s your responsibility. If you don’t know what to do, I’ll help you learn, but we’re gonna have to work together to make this…arrangement possible. Deal?”

Dean thought about what Dad was really asking. He had a mission, and it was important. But it was also important that they stick together. For Sam. For Mom. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Try and get some shut-eye, now, son. We’ll be in Marianna soon. I’ll wake you up when we’ve got a hotel for the night.”

John didn’t wake him, though. There were two bad accidents and a lane shift that created bottleneck and by the time he pulled into a halfway decent truck stop with a vacancy, Dean was fast asleep. John hated leaving them alone, vulnerable, for even a minute, but there was no help for it. He checked in as quickly as possible, all the while casting nervous glances out at the lot where he had parked the car. 

Room key in hand and their bags over his shoulder, John detached Sam’s car seat and pulled up the adjustable contoured handle so he could carry it like a basket, then set it down on the asphalt while he slung Dean onto his hip. Dean wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and rested his head on John’s shoulder, reflexively, and John stood for a moment, holding the boy close, breathing in the scent of his hair. Then he kicked the door shut and juggled both boys into the motel room, where he quickly set about shucking Dean of coat and shoes, still dead to the world, sliding him into bed, and tucking Sam in next to his brother. At last he fell, bleary-eyed, into the sack himself.

Next morning, Dean opened his eyes on dark green curtains and an unfamiliar floor lamp by the window. He rolled over and saw his father in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with one eye on the beds and his children in them. He grinned.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean said, pushing his way out of the covers and lifting up his brother. “Let’s get you some breakfast.” He rummaged through the carry bag for a jar of baby food and Sam’s spoon.

Sam woke up reluctantly and as soon as he was conscious enough, began to cry.

“Probably needs a change, Dean,” his Dad’s voice called from the bathroom. “I’ll run water; you two can have a bath before breakfast.”

Without argument, Dean pulled Sam’s sleeper off and laid him on the comforter while he stripped. Sam sat up and screamed, but Dean kept talking to him gently. Then he carried Sam into the bathroom. Dad pulled off the diaper, let Sam stand naked on the closed toilet and thump his hands against Dean’s shoulders while Dad bagged and binned the dirty disposable. Dad reached around and felt the water. 

“Go on, get in.” He handed Dean a small bottle of baby shampoo. “Make sure you don’t get soap in his eyes.” He turned back to the mirror and lathered up for his shave, angling the mirror so he could watch over them in the tub.

After the bath, Dad toweled them both off and put a clean diaper and a fresh one-piece on Sam while Dean picked out a shirt and put his jeans back on. Then Dean combed his own hair and Dad carefully straightened Sam’s tangles and handed him to Dean, who added a layer of clothes to keep Sam warm. This part was good, and felt right; Dean had already found a routine, something stable in their otherwise unstable existence, and he reveled in it. He held Sam in his lap and helped him spoon up his baby food. Dad flicked the TV on and found “Sesame Street.” Sam reached out to the TV.

“Ba-brr!” he said.

“Yeah, Sammy. Big Bird.” 

Sam started squirming, so Dean let him crawl over the bed and test his legs a little. He kept falling onto his butt, because the bed was really too squishy for proper walking, but it was better than the time he decided to take his first steps on a blacktop overlook walkway. He rolled and giggled when he fell, crashing into Dean.

“Dee!” Sam said.

Dean twisted around. Sam was on his stomach and braced against Dean’s back to get back up. “Whatever, Sammy.” Dean snorted and returned to Bert and Ernie.

“Dee!” Sam said, and started slapping Dean lightly on the back.

“Cut it out!” Dean turned to catch the little hands. But Sam wriggled away (and plonked down on his ass again), and this time when he flailed his hands, they landed on Dean’s face.

“Deen!”

Dean stopped dead. “Did you just…?” Dad had looked up from his notes.

Sam repeated the gesture, slapping lightly at Dean’s face. He grabbed Dean’s nose. “Deen!”

Dad came over. Sam looked up at him. “Da!” Sam said, squealing with pleasure. Then he clapped his hands and patted Dean, open-handed, on the neck. “Deen!”

“Well, waddaya know?” Dad said. “Dean, I think our Sammy’s just said his first words.” Dad laughed and to Dean's delight, caught him under his arms and pushed him into the mattress, tickling him mercilessly. They horsed around, all three of them, on the bed for a little while, Dad tickling and catching and landing raspberries on exposed skin - Sam’s and Dean’s, alike.

Dad let them watch “Captain Kangaroo” while he packed up their things and loaded the car and checked out of the room. Then they went to the truck stop for breakfast. As they entered, the waitress bustled over with coffeepot in hand. Dad ordered eggs, and Dean asked if he could have a waffle _and_ an English muffin and Dad said sure, so he did. This waitress was younger than Midge, but she still kept coming by and finding little excuses to fuss over Sam. 

“Hey, would you like some homemade applesauce for this little fella?” she asked Dad. “No charge.”

“Thank you,” Dad said - never one to turn up his nose at charity when it was to his advantage.

She brought out a small bowl and Sam ate heartily. Dean tried a spoonful, too - it was sweet and cinnamony and had a hint of vanilla and nutmeg. No wonder Sam ate every last bit of it.

Unfortunately, it also went right through him. Within 50 miles of Marianna Sam fouled his diaper so bad that Dean didn’t even have time to comment on it before Dad swore.

“Dammit - next pull-off is probably half an hour away…Dean roll down the windows back there--”

“Got it, Dad,” Dean said, holding his nose, but reaching across to roll down the window on Sam’s side. “It’s okay. We don’t need to stop - I can take care of him.”


End file.
